


Arrival

by agdhani



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:07:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agdhani/pseuds/agdhani
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a chapter for some RP stuff I'm doing, where 'clones' of book/film/tv characters live in 'houses' headed by humans.<br/>This was written to combine a few LJ prompts...so that's why its posted here.  Not sure if I'll continue it here or not...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrival

It was fate that had brought them together, nothing more. Certainly not the fact that they had once shared a canon world where, the best of their memories, they had never met. She knew of him only through vague mentions by her father at the dinner table or in passing conversations in the hall. But the man of that world no longer existed, nor did the world, and in this world, young as she was, she had quickly realized that it was not only the world that was different. She was too. And though those differences added to her inherent mistrust of the world, they were also differences she shared with the beaten, broken man she had found behind the metal box filled with waste. As small as she was, it had taken her considerable effort to get him out of the light rain, down some steep grated stairs into a basement that stunk of mold and rot. There were others there, skeletal men and women with sunken eyes, missing teeth, and a penchant for stabbing themselves with liquid filled needles.  
She didn’t know who they were, but the left her and her companion alone. She was sure if she left him to find food or other supplies, the strangers wouldn’t hesitate to search him for whatever wealth he might have…but she had already searched him and discovered he had nothing of value except a set of keys and a long, bone-handled knife, both of which she pocketed for safe keeping.  
The need to survive didn’t stop her from riffling through what supplies the strangers had. A water bottle here, a wrapped grain-bar there, a handful of money that they would need as soon as he was up to walking, and a discarded shirt that she cut into long strips in order to bandage his forearm, his thigh, his head.  
Maybe she should have left him to die. Two parts of her argued that she should. But he needed her, and even in his condition, she needed him. Broken or not, so long as he proved trustworthy, two travelling together, particularly two as different as they were, meant safety. They could go their separate ways later.  
Hours later, when he had awakened from his foggy stupor, they had left the increasingly stifling, fetid basement, holding on to each other to climb the grated stairs and emerge into the alley. Both squinted against the mid-day sun, and neither knew where they were going, but the compulsion to move, to find safety, was strong in both of them. She had Needle, and his knife, but he was still in no condition to fight so she didn’t give it back to him. He might have been a great warrior once, might still be one or might be one again, but not in his current condition.  
They’d used what was left of the bottled water to wash their hands and faces; though their clothing was dirty and shabby and out of place in the midst of the finely dressed people they passed, they were at least cleaner than some, and when she tugged him into an eating establishment and pushed him into an empty booth, not aware that they should wait to be seated, she felt they would be less likely to be thrown out as the vagrants they were because they were clean.  
Thank the gods they didn’t stink. At least, she thought with her nose to her sleeve, they didn’t stink much.  
“Your father doesn’t look well,” said the woman in the overly short pink and blue striped apron who approached their table with a pen and tablet in hand.  
“He’s not my…” the girl started.  
“She’s not my…” They looked at one another, and though their expressions did not change, both made the silent agreement that if the outside world wanted to see them that way, then for now perhaps it was as wise a disguise as any. “I’ll be fine.” It was difficult to talk with his jaw bruised and swollen, but at least it didn’t feel broken…unlike some of his ribs.  
The girl lay the handful of money she had stolen upon the table. She knew it was money but did not know the denominations she carried, and so asked, “What will this get us?”  
The waitress, feeling bad for the condition they were in and for the fact that the girl obviously did not know how to count…or maybe even read…counted the money out loud so she could watch. “I can get you orange juice, a coffee for your father, and toast for this…”  
“Yes please.” Whatever those things were, if they filled up the emptiness in her belly, they would be welcome.  
“Who did this to you?” she asked, when they were left alone at the table with two glasses of water with ice in them. She had asked it before, but that had been upon finding him, and beyond his name she had gotten nothing else coherent out of him.  
“I…” He shook his head. It wasn’t his fault. He’d been brought into the fight as an underdog, armed only with his bare hands alongside three others, against two or three dozen men, for sport. If there had been rules to that fight, he did not know them, only that it appeared that none of the four were expected to live…or maybe if they had lived without major injury they would have been set free…or accepted into the brotherhood of those gathered to observe the fight. The three on his side had fallen quickly, despite their youth and the appearance of fangs and claws, or perhaps because of it.  
Ser Jorah Mormont had been the last man standing, but against twenty or thirty armed a variety of weapons, no amount of combat skill was going to save his life.  
He’d fallen, thought he would die. He had been thrown into a moving vehicle with the corpses of the others, and after a journey of indeterminate length, each was one by one dumped. Maybe they expected his injuries to prove fatal and so leaving him had been further disposing of evidence. Or maybe they didn’t care if he lived as the likelihood of his finding his way back to wherever he had begun and identifying either the combatants, those in the vehicle, or anyone else who had attended the fight, was low.  
How he had come by keys and the knife, however, he could not recall.  
“I don’t know who they were.” His nose twitched as he sniffed the air. “There were a few…like us…they smelled different…” It had something to do with the fangs and claws, he was certain, and he wondered if he or the girl before him could do that as well. He wondered what it meant, and if it had any connection to the heightening of his senses, particularly his vision, his hearing, his sense of smell. “But they’re dead now.”  
“I don’t know who held me either…but I didn’t trust them…and escaped as soon as their backs were turned.” She sounded proud of herself, as well as a little unnerved. “This place isn’t like home,” she whispered. She realized then why she stuck with Jorah. He was a link to home.  
“No,” he chuckled grimly, immediately clutching his ribs and wincing in pain. “This is nothing like home. I don’t think we’ll be going back there any time soon.” There were regrets heavy in those words, but the ache of them meant that here, at least, he might have the opportunity to heal in heart and soul as well as body.  
The waitress returned with the glass of juice, a cup of coffee, and a plate of toast and sausage. “Don’t tell anyone,” she whispered with a grin and a wink. “I thought you could use the protein.”  
Jorah nodded with a grateful expression as Arya grabbed a sausage with her fingers and bit into it with desperation. “Thank you.”  
“Take your time…enjoy.” The sausages weren’t much, but she seemed pleased to be able to give them something more than toast.  
As hungry as they were, time was an unnecessary commodity. Savoring this meal wasn’t going to happen…but it was good to see the child eating.  
*  
With the cleanup of the Tigh Ard house nearly complete, Cassie had returned to duty, pulling a night shift because no one else had been available to cover it. She didn’t need to work now; the money her father had left her had been wisely invested so that it provided a substantial monthly payout, money enough to live on for a month without her ever needing to lift a finger again. But she did what she did, following her father’s military footsteps, out of a love of the work, and because she did not know what else she would do with her time if she retired now.  
She, Lagertha, and Ellis had moved into Hunter’s beach house, along with Jessie, Faith, and others, filling bedrooms with sleeping bags when necessary. There was plenty of room, and the early summer weather was such that many slept upon the open air patio or down on the beach when they chose. Lagertha continued laboring at the disaster sight, feeling her strengths were better suited there then for housework with modern devices she did not yet know how to use well. Meanwhile, supplied with all of the best equipment Cassie could provide for him, Ellis had spent hours drawing, sketching, measuring, calculating, and discussing matters with other architects, contractors, building and site inspectors, he and Gabriel bent with heads together striving to work as quickly as possible to get Tigh Ard rebuilt. Both knew enough people that the actual building phase should not take long, it was hoped, but the plans had to be perfect before that happened.  
The plans for Ramsey Pride’s home were put on hold in exchange for adjoining suites at the Hilton, suitable payment as far as Mercer was concerned, although he continued to spend most of his nights in the trailer where he hoped his lost Mate would find him if, by some miracle, Dougal Bruce released him.  
When he wasn’t designing, Ellis spent a great many long minutes ogling surfers on the beach, further supporting what Cassie had picked up on earlier. He had no interest in her in a sexual fashion, and Cassie hoped Jim would pick up on that. Neither clone was a threat to Jim Ellison as far as Cassie could see, but she imagined they were just another excuse in a long line of excuses that continued to come between them. Whether this disaster would be enough to finally bind them together, only time would tell. Why didn’t Jim just come and talk to her like a normal person and sort this out between them?  
Hungry and tired, the errand she had agreed to run for a fellow soldier in Havensport now complete, she trudged into the diner with the hopes of a quick bit to eat and enough coffee to get her through the ride home. The scent of Sentinel…two Sentinels…was over-powering and her gaze went immediately to the man and girl at the table nearest her. Both heads turned to look at her as well, drawn likewise by the scent of Clan, and she recognized both faces at once. She also recognized the evidence of a beating, the hunger of starving individuals…and the tell-tale dark grey of the windowless van attempting to parallel park down the block from the diner. Maybe it was coincidence, but anyone seeing these two, dressed as they were, would know them to be clones, and there was still enough prejudice in Havensport that the ample traffic of clones through the city resulted in unfamiliar ones…ones who appeared to be strays…were quickly spotted, turned in, and picked up.  
“Come with me.”  
Arya’s hand closed around Needle, feeling a threat as the woman with the pale red hair abruptly wrapper her arm beneath Jorah’s and pulled him to his feet. Not knowing they had already paid for their meager meal, she tossed a twenty on the table and started as quickly as she could towards the swinging door through which the waitress came and went into the kitchen. With the red-head looking back to the window more than once, Arya looked as well, saw the men in identical gray jumpsuits with strange tools in hand and hanging from their belts, and decided that if the red-head considered them to be a threat, perhaps they were. She wasn’t armed, and she did carry a strong scent that was similar, in some ways, to Jorah’s.  
They went out the back door, around the corner of the building, to a jeep parked in the lot next door, all the while looking for pursuers that might be on their tail. There were shouts as she unlocked the door and urged them both into the vehicle, but Cassie ignored them. She was in uniform and hoped it would be enough to keep the two clone-catchers from shooting at her. Guns were rarely used by Pound employees, as clones were still valuable merchandise and they could not risk lawsuits should they kill someone’s property should a clone be mis-identified, but sometimes it still happened.  
Thankfully today, it did not.  
“Cassie Bruce,” she said to the reflections in the mirror. “You two are lucky I happened by when I did…”  
“We weren’t done eating,” Arya said indignantly, arms crossed over her chest, still not sure she should trust this woman who, in some ways, reminded her of Sansa.  
“I’ll get you a proper full breakfast…and a shower and some clean clothes,” promised Cassie. “You two chipped? Have somewhere to be?”  
Jorah snorted. “Dead. Does that count?”  
Cassie glanced at him in the mirror again. His injuries were such that he very likely could have been left for dead. If he weren’t Sentinel, the injuries would have killed him. Had another Sentinels done this to him? It would have been rare to subject another Sentinel to that sort of a beating without killing him…unless it was some sort of honor combat and Jorah had submitted. But to her senses, his Sentinel seemed strong, despite his age, and she did not think him a man to submit. If anything, he was a man to fight to the death for honor.  
Did he even know he was Sentinel…or what that meant?  
She was reasonably certain Arya did not know that she was Sentinel either. Being new clones, out of time and place, infused either intentionally or accidentally, with Clan, had to be a unsettling, terrifying thing.  
Arya, having no place to be and not knowing what chipped meant, merely glared at Cassie through the mirror, her mistrust palpable.  
“Well…I’ll call Lindsey…a friend…and if you’re chipped, we’ll deal with that. If you’re not…we’ll get it done so that you’re free to be on your way if you want without having to worry about being picked up…”  
“By who? Men like those?”  
“Consider them…slavers of sorts…” That was an analogy Jorah was sure to understand. To survive for a time, he had been forced to deal in slaves, and had thus brought shame upon his family name. He had finally been given a pardon…but at a terrible price of the loss of respect from someone he had dearly loved…and now he was here.  
“And this chip…it is a brand of ownership?”  
“Not a brand…it isn’t visible…but it will prove that you are protected. My family does this a lot…protects clones…”  
“What is clones?”  
Cassie almost rolled her eyes. It figured that would be the word Arya would latch on to. “Fabricated people…copied from a source…there can be many with the same face…the same memories…the same name…or sometimes there is only one. I can’t explain how fabrication works…I don’t know much about the science behind it…but we…my family and I…believe clones have as many rights as anyone else. We don’t believe in ownership…but it must look…on paper and with the chips…as if we do in order to protect those we can.”  
They reached the coastal road and drove north towards the beach house and Tigh Ard, Cassie expecting to see police lights in her mirror and some accusation of theft to come knocking with it. But they reached the house without incident and were greeted there by Ellis…shirtless and wearing swim trunks, getting the mail that had just been delivered. Cassie glanced at her watch. Nine o’clock already. She had meant to be home and in bed over an hour ago.  
“Hey,” he called with a wave.  
“Good morning, El…think you can whip up a decent breakfast for Jorah and Arya here…while I steer them to the showers and hunt down the first aid kit.”  
“Kitchen counter…not sure who left it there, but I was just repacking it when the mailman arrived.” He offered Jorah his hand and said, “Name’s Ellis…and I’ll be happy to see you two properly fed.” He wasn’t any sort of experienced chef, but breakfast was his specialty…his favorite meal of the day, and he wasn’t afraid of the kitchen to make it happen. “Welcome to our little home-away-from-home corner of the world.”  
Arya squinted at him. “Are you a clone?” He didn’t have the same scent as Jorah or Cassie, and she had no idea how to tell clones from non-clones, but she was determined to find out.  
“I am,” he said amiably. “Ain’t no shame in it…means someone thought enough of me to give me life.” He shrugged, held the door open, and let the others inside. “House is empty at the moment…I chased them all out so you’d have some quiet and Gabe’s not gotten here yet…so you two can settle in if you’d like.” From the looks of the older man, these two weren’t likely to be going anywhere any time soon. “I’ll even raid the closets and see what I can find for you to wear.  
*


End file.
